


right here (and forever)

by reflectionslie (fallsink)



Series: our days (always) [1]
Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, I don't always world-build, I make sure everyone suffers with me, M/M, Mages, Slow Burn, angst with happy ending, but when I do, jk just artsy fartsy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-08-20 22:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16564352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallsink/pseuds/reflectionslie
Summary: one night, in a cottage on the outskirts of a wintry forest, stargazing wonpil wishes on a shooting star - for company in this isolated world. but he never expects a stray boy to appear in his cabin, freezing cold with a tinge of white in his hair.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [softtofustew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softtofustew/gifts).



> I got so excited world-building that it ended up taking the majority of this, it starts slow but I promise, once it picks up, it'll be steady ;;  
> \-------------  
> For the prompt:
> 
> one night, in a cottage on the outskirts of a wintry forest, stargazing wonpil wishes on a shooting star - for company in this isolated world. the catch? he never expects a stray boy running through the thicket of trees, freezing cold with a tinge of white in his hair.

the snow starts just before sundown. wonpil sees it just as he's stepping from the edge of the pinewood forest from where he had just appeared, shuddering against the cold. his chestnut hair and heavy cloak rustle in the chilling breeze and the closing of the portal behind him.

tilting his head back, the cloud of exhaustion that escapes from his mouth momentarily obscures his vision and with a heavy sound that’s almost too loud in the silence.

he knew he would be going somewhere far. far from his hometown in the countryside, far from the borderline, and undeniably far from the academy. it’s what they had wanted – what _he_ had wanted.

but even then, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. growing up within the stony and ancient academy walls for most of his life, he had forgotten how quiet it was when there weren’t so many people – so many _magical_ people – around.

even by the countryside, he realizes, it was never this quiet. the sounds of nature and the vibrations of ageless beings were always present until it eventually fell back to a backdrop of noise static. how could he had forgotten? his home, his roots.

the small hiss behind him is lost in the heavy crunching of his boots over dead leaves and branches freezing over.

he doesn't look back to watch the portal close completely.

 

* * *

 

he knows exactly when he’s crossed the protection line when he passes through something rippling like a veil and the low hum of working magic presses against his mind, more of an aura than a sound.

a deep surge rises in his chest at the feeling. this is no doubt sungjin’s magic, which makes sense, as the safehouse is the older’s. he had offered it to wonpil to stay as the council deliberates its final decision, saying offhandedly that it was abandoned by his family ages ago and could use some fixing up.

sungjin has always been tough and fair, but also so kind in his own way. everyone, including wonpil, knows that the council would never rule in his favor. he was different, never followed their rules. was never good enough. it would be mercy at this point if they don’t make a decision at all and let him live out the rest of his long, long life here alone.

he tries to stop the rising panic from seeping into all of his veins, into all the emotions that he’s already trying to hold in right now by tugging his cloak closer and ducking his head down as he continues to trudge forward.

as the youngest of the four friends by a wide margin as well as the newest to join the academy, wonpil is forever grateful that he had older friends to learn after. their ways of magic, the rules of their existence. sungjin and younghyun have been alive far longer than they can keep track of, so they weren’t as understanding. jaehyung had accepted the fact of the extraordinarily long lives mages like them have just before wonpil arrived, so he helped ease the anxiety and pain.

but even then, he was always much better at making sense of things, moving on, and letting go.

wonpil was never good at letting go.

he had cried when he found that he was going to outlive his own parents and siblings and everyone he knew back home, and even harder when he finally did two decades ago and wasn’t even there to witness it.

he was never good at letting go. which is partly how he even got in all this mess to begin with.

but truthfully, he thinks, it was a long time coming. at least he can now learn how to be on his own and no longer be a burden to everyone around him.

from the edge of his vision, he catches sight of the thatched roof from under the rim of his cloak, he feels his heart lift. when he stops at the top of the hill, looking down at would be his new home, he can’t help but let out a low laugh.

the cabin is very much intact and strong against the elements, flanked by the evergreens around it. there is a porch and an empty fire pit out front, and even a small swing by the front door, swaying slightly. the structure seems almost freshly renovated, had not for the ivy crawling up its walls in a way that the older mage would not have let happen.

sungjin was always meticulous, brilliant, and hardworking. it’s no wonder he would the favorite…

shaking his head, wonpil takes a deep, deep breath, taking in the pines and chilling snow. this is it, the beginning of his new life.

even with the heaviness and bitter aching he still very much feels, he allows himself this moment of content vulnerability. turning over a new leaf in the dead of winter and starting over once again.

 

* * *

 

he gets busy right away, settling into the cabin and checking up on everything. sungjin was very thorough, making sure that all the essentials are provided for – silverware, fluffy blankets, and a magically charmed greenhouse in the back to grow vegetables and fruits.

younghyun had added his own touches to the space, pots of ever-blooming flowers and glowing lanterns that ignite when he walks in every room and drift about until he leaves. wonpil feels so overwhelmingly well-cared for and aches to think that he can’t do anything to return the favors, or even at least to thank them.

at the same time, as he visits each room, it becomes very clear that one of the three had not contributed to the decorations.

but as soon as he thinks this, wonpil berates himself, for thinking that jaehyung would have done something. the older had already made clear his choice before he had left and moved on in the way that wonpil could never follow or quite understand.

so he chooses instead to be grateful and makes sure to appreciate all that he has, doing all that he can to keep away the thoughts of all things he had left behind.

 

* * *

 

it takes a few days for the snow to fall enough for it to start sticking.

by then, the lodge has started to take on that scent and aura of being lived in. books snuggled together on the bookshelf, items moved to lower shelves where wonpil can actually reach them, and the like.

his first project is converting one of the backmost rooms into a reading room, the longest time was spent transfiguring the stretch of wall into an insulated set of bay windows that gives him an incredible view into the small clearing behind the cabin.

they had left him so many books, though a little less when he doesn’t include the ones not in korean or in runes, he was never good at deciphering those. the window conversion was one idea he had gotten from an older edition of a home improvement spell book.

jaehyung would have laughed and say that it shows, in the outdated design.

wonpil isn’t sure whether the pang following that thought is less painful than before is because he’s moving on or that he’s becoming numb.

he’s not sure which one is worse.

 

* * *

 

time moves much differently here than in the academy. it moves both slower – the days and nights seem longer – and almost a breakneck pace – things start to blur together as the novelty wears off.

he still manages to keep busy, but the downside of having the cabin so furnished is that there are increasingly fewer things to do. he still sings sometimes, but even that beings to lose its luster.

he only wishes that he could share it all with someone special.

 

* * *

 

the ancient trees sing, he finds, and especially so as the snow continues to fall in waves and pile slowly up. he hadn’t noticed at first because it is at a lower frequency than he is used to.

but he thinks it may also be because he lasts only two weeks in before he can’t hold back or deny the loneliness that now clings to him so suffocatingly tight.

the ancient trees sing, and god does it _ache_.

 

* * *

 

the loneliness accompanies him the most heavily as he practices his magic. it's hard without the guidance that he's so used to having, though nowhere as hard as trying _not_ to remember. especially every time something cracks, slips, burns, spills, overflows, breaks, all he can think of are soothing hands always ready, never far.

 

* * *

 

his favorite days are when the animals come to visit.

it starts with a sparrow that broke its wing against a tree not far from the greenhouses. he sees it trembling violently against the morning frost around it and it tries to hop and flutter away when he comes towards it, but ends up cowering against the tangled roots.

wonpil fights the flooding sadness inside his chest as he crouches down with an outstretched hand. the bird’s breast continues to tremble rapidly.

“easy, love,” he whispers, pulling from inside him some magic. “i mean you no harm…”

at the sound of his voice, the sparrow stops. looks with bright eyes between wonpil’s kind ones and the sunflower seeds now sprouting from his open palm. takes a few hesitant hops then settles against his protectively curling fingers.  

“that’s right…” wonpil whispers, cupping it close, “good… good, I got you…”

and from the way the sparrow lets itself be held under his cloak, eats a few seeds before closing its eyes, it believes it too.

 

* * *

 

it takes a few weeks for the bones to heal. wonpil is diligent in keeping it clean and feeding it, slowly graduating it to short test flights inside the reading room with plenty of encouragement.

his chest fills with something deeply bittersweet when one day it takes off and circles around his head like a halo, chirping happily. when he knows that tomorrow is that day he will return it back to the forest.

that morning there are no clouds in the winter sky and the frost glitter from all angles.

he brings the sparrow close to his face, feeling the soft feathers against his cheek as it coos softly. thinking it well wishes and watching it flutter its wings testily before suddenly flying off into the open sweep of sky.

for a brief moment, wonpil’s heart feels as if it may have taken flight too.

 

* * *

 

after that, then all manner of animals come to him. first only the sick and injured, looking for healing, but then more come for simply for comfort or curiosity.

sometimes wonpil will wake, far warmer than usual, with small animals curled against him in every crevice without falling off the bed that he has difficulty moving. every so often he’d see non-forest native animals wander in like a pair of mountain goats or a single gray cat, and he’d always jokingly ask in soft tones, if they were lost. other times, he would be cooking and feel a small nudge against his back in askance. so now he keeps bowls of vegetables and seeds around the cabin and on surfaces, regularly close and within reach.

when he lights the fires at in the late afternoon, they join him around his chair, sharing the company and warmth, wrapped in the safety of each other’s presence.

but in this strange unspoken way, all of the animals leave when the sun sets, leaving wonpil alone every night. even when they’ve just padded in or settled into different corners, once the last slivers of sun beams fade for the day, they always leave.

he tries to fight the disappointment and to hide the crestfallen expression each time he hears them start to get up by getting up too and opening the door for them as they file out.

again, he tries to stay grateful, and it’s easier the next time they return. but every time, he still can’t stop the feeling of abandonment.

 

* * *

over time, his voice starts to fade, but he doesn't notice.

 

he’s so used to whispering soothing tones to not startle the animals, especially the small ones. even if he had his voice, though he’s not sure what he would say or to whom, if he had anything to say at all.  

 

* * *

 

but it finally breaks him when overnight, the snow suddenly piles so high that he can hardly open his door.

he’s buried in blankets on the couch, cooking book in his hands and resting on his knees. but he hasn’t been reading it, hasn’t been for a while, unfocused eyes having drifted off towards the fire, thoughts disjointed and hazy…

it happens out of nowhere. it had been building like the snow, but it hits its breaking point. wonpil feels like he’s being torn apart, from the inside out. it’s cold, deep inside the edges of his heart where nothing physical can touch.

he’s shaking and he staggers off the couch to start pacing, forcefully rubbing up and down his arms to scrub away the chill that burns the underside of his skin.

all at once, the four wooden walls around him are too too close, collapsing like his lungs around and on him. he has to get out, somewhere, now.

before he knows it, he’s standing there knee deep in thick snow, rapidly soaking through his thin pants and numbing him even more to his core. finally catching his breath for an instant, tipping his head back, he stares up the dome of the sky. so clear now that the snow has stopped falling and there is a thin sliver of moon and yet so...starless.

then there is something brilliant and bright, streaking across the sky in its descent. a shooting star. then another and another and another… it’s a meteor shower.

awe floods all the empty crevices in his lungs and it mixes with the still-brewing despair in his chest now until it finally overflows.

closing his eyes and baring his teeth, he can’t stop the hot tears from slipping down his cheeks.

“I just want company in this cold isolated world…” he chokes out to no one in particular. “I don’t want to be alone anymore…”

he squeezes his eyes so hard that he sees more stars bursting behind his eyelids and for an instant, he thinks that maybe someone – out there somewhere – is listening.

 

* * *

 

the cabin seems almost smaller, colder when he finally wanders back in however much longer after, shedding his frozen clothes with difficulty, so he draws up a bath and slowly peels each layer off in the steaming water.

with all his tears, all energy is sapped and the haziness sets back in like a dense fog. he wonders how long he’s been like this, this displacement, and didn’t know it until now.

just as he was about to crawl back into bed, three things happen in such quick succession that they seem to happen all at once:

first, a deafening boom like thunder that shakes the entire foundation of his house;

next, a great spike in magical energy that clashes with his equilibrium so intensely that temporarily stuns him;

and then a shattering of glass downstairs.

straightening with adrenaline coursing through his veins and panic pounding in his ears, he hastily grabs a handful of energy orbs under his bed that he keeps in emergencies like this. he shudders as the wave of renewed power floods through him. then he makes a few preemptive protection spells before creeping down the stairs.

all the lights are still on, though some of the floating lanterns had toppled to the floor from knocked out of the air by the power spike. his eyes are drawn to the window across from him next to the front door where the entire plane had been broken, now letting in cold winds.

something shifts to his left and he immediately lowers himself into a fighting stance, restraining himself from attacking.

a form in the shadows is rapidly growing and extending and forming a body, broadening until... a man stands shakily up. he is well-muscled, bare to his waist where loose pants hug the defined line of his hips. the lantern light from all around them throws all of his sharp features into even sharper relief.

wonpil can’t help a gasp when he meets the stranger’s eyes through low-hanging bangs as he takes two steps forward and wonpil only gets a glance of brilliantly green eyes before the man collapses on the floor.

 

* * *

 

wonpil moves before his thoughts catch up to him. he's rolling the man over onto his back as gently as he can, then crouching over him with two fingers on the stranger’s jugular.

a pulse, weak. breathing too ragged, irregular.

but he’s too cold, inhumanly cold. wonpil lifts his hand to push back the dark stiff bangs and is now burned by the heated skin at the forehead.

just as he retreats his hand, he stops. he first notices a tuft of white amongst the black of the stranger’s hair, but it does not strike him anywhere as much as how young this man – this boy is, who looked hardly older than himself, if he had walked in time like humans.

he must have only reached adulthood recently.

time freezes and wonpil is trapped in the center, at a complete loss.

a stray boy who broke in –

he realizes then with a jolt, that strangely none of sungjin’s protective charms or alarms have been set off in all of this. it’s not dark or malicious magic that would bring immediate damage, but it doesn’t mean it still can’t harm.

wonpil bites his lip, thinking hard. through his reasonings and clashing emotions, a memory rises to the surface.

of jaehyung once saying that he was too trusting, that one day he’d get burned.

but no, this stranger was in need now. new determination sharpens wonpil’s focus. he knows what he must do.

he’d get his answers later.

 

* * *

 

he somehow manages to bring the boy up to his own bed with minimal magic and once he’s prepared enough blankets around him and the right tools, gets right to work.

it’s far past midnight now, wonpil knows for sure, but it’s the only thing he is sure of now as he tries to keep his breathing and panic down.

the strange boy has a high fever that just won’t break, even without all the regulating spells that wonpil casts. it’s so high that wonpil is afraid that even if it does break, that the boy will suffer brain damage or even… he shakes his head.

_no, focus. concentrate._

but there’s nothing he can do. he falls into a chair beside the bed and buries his face in his hands.

nothing else he can think of, even after racking his brains and shuffling through spellbook after spellbook. his own supply of magic is near its end and he’s getting so tired, so desperate...

 _...don’t... leave_...

the two words are faint and distant, but so clear in his head that wonpil whips his head up, thinking that his patient had woken.

but he hadn’t, still sweating beneath the blankets and cold compresses, shuddering, and breathing labored.

as wonpil takes in the furrowed eyebrows and sweat-slick skin, his own voice from years far past echoes back to him now.

to the time a council elder had blocked his entrance to help a young female patient that the council had decided that they were going let die. he was so young and so new and so full of dreams – could not understand why younghyun and sungjin were pulling at his arms, and even jaehyung with a firm arm around his waist pushing him back down the cold corridor.

and wonpil had screamed as he was dragged away by his friends, _"what's the point of having magic if you can't help anyone with it?"_

there’s nothing else he can think of, even after racking his brains and shuffling through spellbook after spellbook. his own supply of magic is near its end and he’s getting so tired, so desperate…

except…

the boy coughs and as wonpil replenishes the bowl of water and tips it back carefully against his lips, cleaning any excess that escapes and some of the sweat, he thinks.

that particular elder was known for always overindulging in wines. wonpil had watched him perform the complex spell to relieve the head pangs countless times. even used it a few times himself to help others heal muscle aches after strenuous work.

purpose strikes deep and heavy and wonpil smiles despite it all.

because he knows and now he can do what he does best – care for others.

 

* * *

 

the fever breaks just as the sun does too over the horizon. the boy’s breath has evened out as well, a low steady rhythm across his broad chest in deep sleep, and he stops shuddering.

now hardly able to keep his eyes open, wonpil tidies up as quietly as he can before stepping out into the sitting room. then he collapses into a nearby sofa with a loud full-body exhale and closes his eyes.

and he thinks, with a faint smile of relief, “ _I did it_. I did something right...for once…”

 


	2. Chapter 2

wonpil wakes suddenly, not having realized that he had fallen asleep at all. disoriented, he sits up from the sofa where he had curled up in, blinking slowly, stretching his limbs that had cramped a little from the awkward position. it’s steady afternoon, the sun past its zenith, and the snow outside has turned a soft orange-gold, glimmering.

then the memories from last night catch up to him in a rush and he moves up to the bedroom door, straining his ears to hear if his patient had woken him. but it’s so quiet that it’s almost like the world holding its breath, with full light beams and dust motes suspended in the air. opening the door a crack and peeking into the room, he gasps.

he thought he had closed all of the windows with the snow storm outside, but now they all stand wide open. all manner of animals fill every corner and every place there is light. at last three deer, two bears, a few foxes block his view of the bed, and birds and squirrels are silent as they perch on the furniture and shelves. his eyes widen when he even sees a few water and fire sprites floating around the headboard.

they all seem to be holding their breaths too, with the world, as if they are holding silent vigil.

the nearest of the animals turn to look at him at his entrance and a few mice scutter towards him to attach themselves to his slippers. chuckling and bending down to stroke them with the backs of his hands, he is suddenly very relieved, so comforted to know that they are all caring after and watching over his patent in his stead. giving him a handful of moments to rest.

a little tug at the back of his hair and he turns to see a few woodland fairies twittering at his ear, flashing their tiny sharp teeth and their dragonfly wings catching rainbows on their prismic wings.

“hello, friends,” he whispers in wonder, unable to keep back the soft but elated laugh. “I thought it was too far out of your realms- no, no! it’s _wonderful_ to see you,” he adds when they start blinking their large pupil-less eyes in hurt, their antennae drooping a little in disappointment. “I had just not expected… oh, of course! of course, I would have called for you if I had known you were so close.”

seemingly satisfied by his reassurances, they start pulling at his hair again and pointing towards the kitchen. he lets out a chuckle.

“yes, come,” he smiles, closing the door quietly behind him. “let’s go make some lunch.”

 

* * *

 

it’s a bit difficult navigating amongst the handful of remaining animals with a full tray laden with cooked eggs, vegetables, warmed bread, and tea, but somehow wonpil manages. many of the larger creatures have left by then, but a few foxes and other small mammals perk their ears in interest at his entrance and sniff hopefully.

he just grins and shakes his head, “not for you.”

as soon as the last word falls from his lips, he glances over at the bed and almost drops his tray.

the boy is wide awake and sitting up against the pillows, still bare to the waist, an arm on his propped up legs beneath the blankets, his lips a smooth line and green eyes steady.

wonpil ignores the leap in his throat and sets down the food by the bedside table, trying not to be rude by making direct eye contact.

“hello,” he starts, smiling and not really expecting an answer. “how are you feeling-?”

“wonpil.”

it isn’t just the deepness of the voice or the way the stranger’s tongue curls hesitant around the syllables. there is just something primally familiar about that voice.

but before he can fully process it, the backs of his heel hit the cold wall behind him as he retreats a few steps from the bed and again low in a fighting stance. the coils of condensed light are burning bright and humming around his hands and fingers before his mind can even register it. all the nearby animals flee at this with such echoing noises of fear that wonpil wishes he could comfort them.

the stranger has his hands up too just as quickly, in both protection from the blinding light and in surrender.

“no, n-no, please,” he says, sounding like he is struggling to keep his voice even, “do not be afraid, I- I mean you no harm.”

“who are you?” wonpil says, struggling to control his voice and breathing, fearing the worst. what if he had let in someone sent from the academy or...? “how do you know my name?”

“I...I have watched you. from afar.” the boy stops to rethink, clearly backtracking. when he speaks again a few moments later, it’s far more careful like he is approaching a scared creature. “you take care of my friends… the animals… you heal them and you ask for nothing in return.”

wonpil narrows his eyes. “why should I trust you?”

“I…” the boy seems at a loss. the conflict in his eyes is clear that this is not what he had expected wonpil to react. he bites his lower lip, clearly thinking fast. “I… I do not ask for you to trust me... not at first. but I am only here for one thing…”

“and which is?”

dark brown eyes meet green. wonpil realizes in that space between their eye contact and the boy’s reply that it isn’t just the deepness of the voice or the way the stranger’s tongue curls hesitant around the syllables. there is just something primally familiar about that voice.

as if, he understands, in a previous life, he had once known it.

“to grant you a wish,” the other says, with such genuine earnesty that it strikes a chord inside wonpil. “anything. your greatest desire.”

the magical energy hums louder as every nerve in wonpil’s body is still tensed to attack. he doesn’t know is happening, can’t think past the panic. “why?”

the stranger bows his head, the dark hair sweeping into his long eyelashes. “I...I owe you my life. even if you do not remember. and I am grateful, for my friends.”

wonpil doesn’t reply, still thinking hard.

when he sees the distrust still in every part wonpil’s body, still not retreating his magic, the boy looks more crestfallen. “what… what could I do? to help you trust me?”

“a name... is a good place to start,” wonpil says, before he can help himself.

despite everything, the corner of the boy’s lip curls with a ghost of a smile as he replies, “dowoon.”

but as he says it, he tries moving to stand up but he sways precariously, eyelids fluttering. without thinking, wonpil’s light vanishes when his attention diverts to rushing forward and easing dowoon back down into the sheets instead. the skin is no longer chilling or burning and wonpil can feel an ancient energy from the underside of his skin.

at wonpil’s touch, dowoon relaxes immediately against the pillow and a quiet sigh slips through his lips as his eyelids flutter shut. within moments, he seems to be asleep.

wonpil watches his vitals during this. pulse, temperature, reflexes in response to his touch. there is no need for him to keep making this much physical contact with dowoon, but wonpil can’t help brushing the bangs away from the other’s face, lingering slightly. he tells himself it’s just to check for any lasting damage.

“rest well,” he murmurs when he pulls back.

he thought he had been quiet, no more than just a breath, but dowoon’s eyes flash open at this. all restful content has gone from his face, and all keen attention again.

“please…” dowoon whispers, voice roughing up from the sleep around its edges, “please think of a wish.”

wonpil stares down into that earnest expression, these intensely honest and almost familiar eyes with nothing but trust and heartfelt sincerity, and is somehow okay with replying, “I will.”

 

* * *

 

dowoon spends the next few days drifting in and out of consciousness, but soon is awake more often than not. the animals also return to keep him company and sometimes wonpil waits to walk in, just to hear the low timbre of dowoon murmuring to the creatures.

after dowoon is strong enough to wipe himself down with a wet towel, wonpil starts to distance himself by staying busy elsewhere, so that he can give the other enough space and time to heal without him fretting all over him.

wonpil is careful, does his best to tend to dowoon without touching him unnecessarily. whether it’s tucking the blankets around the other or tugging out the sheets to wash them or even just to take dowoon’s temperature.

there is an unspoken understanding about it, though wonpil can’t quite explain it. he tells himself it’s about respect, to not cross that hazy line between this unexplained agreement and dowoon’s discomfort.

 

* * *

 

as soon as dowoon is stable, wonpil wastes no time in getting answers. or at least, trying to.

“so, dowoon, where are you from?” he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed and folding newly laundered pillow, trying to sound casual. “how did you get here?”

there is a heavy silence. dowoon seems to have frozen. the only sounds are the evening winds outside the window and the soft rustling of fabric against wonpil’s deft fingers.

when dowoon finally speaks, it sounds like he’s physically holding something back.

“I-I don't know.”

wonpil knows he's lying, they both do. he knows it instantly and when he chances a glance up as he puts the folded piece in the pile behind him, the avoidance of his eyes and the scratching of the back of his neck… wonpil knows dowoon is lying.

but if dowoon doesn’t want to tell, then he has no place to ask.

yet as wonpil finishes the rest of the cloths in silence and carries them out in the basket to be distributed, he isn’t worried.

if anything, healers are patient people. and no harm has been done yet by waiting.

 

* * *

 

wonpil insists that dowoon stay in bed two more days just to make sure he’s healed enough to move around. dowoon takes it the best he can but gets very restless, so wonpil continues to sit with him to keep him company.

dowoon is keen and attentive and especially sensitive to whenever wonpil makes wistful comments or takes note of needing something, anything.

he discovers this one day as he’s sitting at the edge of dowoon’s bed, magicking a broken pot together and mutters, more to himself as a note, “ahh I’ve run out of copper again...”

immediately dowoon perks up from his mesmerized stare at wonpil’s twisting hands and asks, “is that your wish? to have more material?”

flushing, wonpil shakes his head vigorously and in his haste, drops the pot again. he’s almost glad to have an excuse to avoid dowoon’s eyes because as he’s gathering the container into his arms, he can almost feel the disappointment rolling off of the other.

he pauses halfway through the doorway to look back at dowoon. “but I will,” wonpil says. “make a wish, I mean.”

and wonpil leaves the room thinking that a little white lie shouldn’t feel this worth it, but maybe it was, if it means that he could see dowoon beam at him so brightly like this.

 

* * *

 

as soon as he can stand on his own, dowoon moves to the guest room, ignoring wonpil’s protests by just gathering the blankets and pillows and shuffling to the room adjacent.

every night he stops by wonpil’s room, knocking twice if the door was closed then leaning against the doorframe, his intent eyes always glittering brighter than the low lantern lights.

“have you decided on your wish?” he’d ask, to which wonpil would reply, without exception, “no, I haven’t.”

then a particular sadness would flit across dowoon’s face, but he still manages to put up a happy expression that reaches all the way up to his green eyes, and returns with “I see. good night, wonpil.”

and wonpil would swallow down the mirroring hurt in his chest at dowoon’s expression and say just before the door closes, “good night, dowoon.”

 

* * *

  

he heals quickly and soon even the easily excitable light sprites become anxious as dowoon constantly paces the rooms like a trapped outdoor cat. his wanderings disrupt wonpil’s rooted patterns and habits and keeps running into him, so he tries his best to find something to occupy the fidgety boy.

the solution turns out to be a red elm bow that dowoon brings back from the storage shed without the knife honing rod that wonpil had originally sent him there for. the bowstring had snapped sometime when wonpil was moving in and he just never went back to restring it.

it becomes a project of sorts that starts out with them finding a book that would teach them how to make the string (from twisted rawhide, they find) to a quick trek outside to find the ash and willow trees for arrows, then ultimately to wonpil pulling himself away to let dowoon finish the task himself.

just stepping back to let dowoon grow on his own.

 

* * *

 

it’s easy, wonpil realizes one afternoon, not long after dowoon starts practicing with the newly-strung bow, which he has a very natural affinity to and almost never seems to miss his dirt-sack target.

it’s easy being around dowoon, whether or not they talk. just spending time in each other’s spaces, both equally giving and rarely ever taking.

he also finds that he likes dowoon’s concentration the most, the way his green apple colored eyes focus with eyebrows furrowed, broad shoulders rolled forward.

wholeheartedly throwing himself into anything he does.

and when this attention turns onto him when wonpil is speaking or even just passing by, wonpil can’t help the rush of taut warmth inside his chest.

or help feeling like, maybe, he’s something special.

 

* * *

 

dowoon still continues the same exchange every night to be met with the same response that wonpil wonders if he’ll ever tire. but it becomes far more of a cycle, a custom, a routine act that doesn’t quite lose its original meaning, but more like over time gains new significance.

wonpil is careful, does his best to spend time with dowoon without touching him unnecessarily. but sometimes he can’t help the grazing of his elbow across wonpil’s arm as he carries a basket laden with fresh fruits and vegetables or the accidental bumps when passing by.

there is an unspoken understanding about it, though wonpil can’t quite explain it. he tells himself it’s about respect, to not cross that hazy line between this unexplained agreement and dowoon’s discomfort.

but more and more there is something heavy lingering inside him when he talks with dowoon, like honey on the back of his tongue. he knows this feeling and even if it still feels different this time, but he wouldn’t – _can’t_ – let himself feel it again.

not when the first and only time he had let it in, it had destroyed him.

 

* * *

 

wonpil doesn’t know when he stops keeping track of the days.

he starts to remember things by milestones, namely when dowoon leaves to hunt and returns. they don’t cook meat often so there are stretches of days in between each period.

somewhere between the third and fifth hunt, wonpil notices the way dowoon trails around him sometimes longer than necessary. by the ninth, he thinks that his name sounds different when dowoon says it when he comes back through the doorway. right after the nineteenth return, he learns that it had not been his imagination.

even his greetings change somewhere in between those outings, from “oh, you’re back” to “come in, it’s cold outside,” then to “welcome back.”

dowoon always nods at each of these greetings with a small quirk of his lips through the long bangs, then moves to behind the cabin to clean the animal carcasses. but sometime, it becomes a full stop beside wonpil in whatever he is doing at that moment, followed by a full, steady gaze, then two broad smiles that continue on long after dowoon walks away.

neither of them say it, but they both understand the words that are unsaid. almost as if just even giving it voice would take away the enchantment of the moment.

_I’m home_

 

* * *

 

wonpil still asks sometimes where dowoon is from and how he got here in the dead of winter, but he’s beginning to care less.

but if he is honest, he doesn’t mind. not when they are creating their history (together).

and with each passing night with their routine, he wonders if it really is even a lie anymore, to make a wish. every time he replies “I will” he can feel the blooming want to make a wish to fulfill what seems to be dowoon’s greatest desire.

but also not, because selfishly, if not making a wish means that dowoon won’t leave, then it could mean they can stay together like this.

 

* * *

 

“why don’t you sing anymore?”

they’re sitting outside by the fire pit that’s alight with cherry coals, palming mugs of tea. some fire salamanders that wonpil borrows from the sprites lounge amongst the firewood.

wonpil doesn’t meet the searching green gaze beside him, turning from the flames to focus rather on a few stray cat hairs on dowoon’s light gray sweater. “I gave it up a long time ago.”

“you should sing again-”

“no, I shouldn’t.” wonpil doesn’t mean to be that sharp, immediately regrets it and especially to dowoon who only ever wants the best for him. “I was never as good as the others, and never had sungjin’s control, younghyun’s range, jaehyung’s…” he stops, the memories making his throat tight. even now, it still hurts. “it never helped me. and it was a long time ago...”

there’s a deeply hurt look on dowoon’s face. not like it hurts him to be disagreed with, but more like it hurts him that wonpil won’t sing anymore.

like it’s something worth grieving.

and it makes something in his chest tighten, that weird sort of tightness, anxious restraint that’s been happening a lot of late.

“at least you still do magic.”

this makes wonpil glance up and finally meet his gaze. dowoon’s face swims in and out of focus, from the heat waves and from wonpil focusing too long at the fire.

dowoon’s always excluded some magic, and an ancient one at that that feels like starlight, but they’ve found that through numerous trials and many broken tools later, that he is unable to channel it. and wonpil is patient, but he supposes he isn’t a good teacher.

this is the first time that dowoon mentions this since they’ve moved on however many months ago and wonpil can hear a hint of something like longing.

“teach me, please.”

and wonpil does.

or rather, shows him how to summon light orbs to gather in his palms like sand grains. then with a spontaneous flash, he tosses them into the nighttime air, where they stay suspended for a long enough time to set the space aglow before descending back down in glittering drops like sunlight and rain combined into one brilliant shower.

he doesn’t know why he shows dowoon this one, this particular spell used for special occasions, namely the summer solstice which feels like both lifetimes ago and so far in the future that it’s not even on the horizon line.

it also happens to be his personal favorite trick.

yet as he watches dowoon with his outstretched and open palms and low laughter to receive the condensed light swirling down, he thinks that is it. this is the moment when he loses his heart to the way dowoon's eyes and brilliant smile, his cheeks pretty and pink, makes his chest so tight with affection.

but most of all, how it makes him feel _safe_.

 

 

 

(“one day, you’ll make the most beautiful light displays. when you return to the academy.”

“how do you know that?”

a slight pause and a hum. “because it makes you smile. and you should always follow what makes you happy.”)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I have committed two sins that I am atoning for: 1) falling in love w this au too much and expanded it even more than I ever anticipated and 2) created plot holes the size of supernovas, sO I think I got it handled now and this will be a 4-part instead of 3-part and I might also make other small vignettes in the same au if people are interested. THANKS FOR TUNING IN

**Author's Note:**

> hello~ thank you so much for your amazing prompt, I loved it so much, and I spent so much time world building, that this ended up blowing up into at least a 3-part fic, but I didn't want to leave empty handed so I cranked thru the first chapter, pls excuse the typos. I hope you like it so far, ;v;; <3 <3 <3
> 
> and to dear reader, thank you and hope you like what else is to come!! pls feel free to lmk questions/where you think it's gonna go, it's a lot to handle <3
> 
> fun fact: the inspiration that wonpil uses to break the fever comes from when in the 60s, dr. stewart adams knew he had found a potential new painkiller when it cured his hangover before an important speech. we know it now as ibuprofen #themoreyouknow


End file.
